


My Favourite Mistake

by S_Faith



Series: My Own Little Sub-Universe [23]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-13
Updated: 2010-06-13
Packaged: 2019-11-24 06:24:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18162452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: How late is really too late?





	My Favourite Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> In the [timeline of this universe](https://archiveofourown.org/series/937383), it takes place in November, EOR +21, or nineteen years after the MA / NC-17 story [Your Little Secret](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18159392), in which Tom and Mark's brother have a fling that [spoilers!].
> 
> So. If same-sex pairings flip your shit out, then don't bother reading this. Comments of a derogatory nature regarding the relationship will be deleted. You can rag on my writing all you like, though—I can take it. ;)
> 
> Title from the Sheryl Crow song. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: This universe, despite being populated with Helen's characters, is mine. Tom's not mine. Peter's sort of mine. Uncle Nick and Andy are definitely mine.

That bastard always did have bad timing.

You disconnect the call by slapping the phone shut then sigh heavily. What's supposed to be a fun Bonfire Night has turned into your worst nightmare, and now you've got to face the assembled out in the yard with a brightly plastered-on smile as if nothing were wrong at all, as if your boyfriend of eighteen months hadn't just phoned you to say it was over and that he was moving out. Like, that night.

You take a deep breath. You're an actor at heart. You can do this. You put the mask in place.

The first person you encounter, unfortunately, is probably the one person you least want to face. And he's between you and the door.

"Peter," you say, forcing a smile. _Fuck_ , you think. It's been too many years since your brief, clandestine and ultimately catastrophic affair with him, and though you're friendly now, you still prefer not to be in close quarters with him, because it only serves to remind you how badly he broke your heart, how much deep down you still kind of wish things had worked out.

"Tom," he says. The concern is evident in his voice as he asks, "Everything all right?"

_Fuck_ , you think again as you wonder what your tell is. "Yes. Fine."

He looks down, speaks quietly. "Tom. I… um. We're friends. You don't have to lie to me." He looks up again. "I know that look."

 _You've caused that look_ , you think.

"Andy's waiting for me," you say stiffly. "I don't like disappointing my godson."

He offers a thin-lipped smile, then nods a little. You pass by him and out the door.

What else could he have expected from you, really? For you to open your arms, bear your soul about being dumped yet again?

The evening ends up being fun and you, your godson and his friend Justin have a great time, but at the end of the night, after the boys have gone off to bed, the girls have taken their own children home and you've had a few drinks in you, that your good friend Bridget manages to get the truth out of you about your phone call that evening with Paul. She moves through the steps of grief quite rapidly: denial, depression, anger… but in the end, you know it's really over. All of the signs were there. You'd just refused to acknowledge them.

Bridget hugs you and insists on making up a guest room for you. You don't want to see Paul cleaning his things out of your place, and you're too fucked up to drive anyway, so you accept. The kiss on the top of your head as she leaves you in the cool and quiet night air feels very comforting, and you close your eyes and sigh.

"I'm sorry."

Too late you realise Peter's still there, lingering in the shadows. He heard the whole thing.

"Yeah, well," you say. "Story of my life."

He stares at you with such intensity in those blue eyes that you wonder what it is he might say, expect it might blow you away with its profundity, but what blows you away is that he says nothing at all, heads into the house, closing the door behind himself.

Bridget, like the mum she is now, makes sure you're all tucked in with fresh sheets, then smiles wistfully and, with a manoeuvre that makes you chuckle, bends and kisses you goodnight on the forehead. You smile until she switches off the light and leaves the room, closing the door behind her, at which point, you burst into stupid, snotty tears.

You're apparently too fucked up for many things.

………

The next thing you know it's the unholy holiday trinity of Christmas/Boxing Day/New Year's, which means lots of parties. In turn, lots of parties mean more possibilities of running into Paul. The odds are against you, and when you do meet at one of these shindigs, you try to be civil, but when you see him with his tongue down the throat of (and grinding his pelvis into) a man young enough to be your son (that is, had you been prone to breeding), you revert to your thirties' 'bitchy queen' stage and verbally eviscerate him in front of everyone.

It probably doesn't accomplish anything positive, but you feel better. At least for a little while.

New Year's Day is spent at Bridget and Mark's; they had taken up the mantle of the Turkey Curry Buffet in a kitsch, retro sort of spirit. Everyone's encouraged to wear horrible holiday wear, and guest beds are made up in advance for those too plastered to even stagger to a Tube stop afterwards. Mark, as he always does, has on the reindeer jumper. It's not like moths will touch polyester, anyway.

Andy tells you about a girl he has a crush on. You feel oddly sentimental and reach to hug your godson. He laughs and when he pushes you away you can see his cheeks tinted pink. He's so grown up now; he'll be seventeen in this, the new year.

You have the oddest feeling that someone's eyes are upon you. Your eyes scan the party until at last meeting with piercingly ice blue ones. Peter's watching you.

Your gaze is the first to drop. You're not quite sure what it means. It reminds you so much of that look he gave you at the bar the night you first fucked him that you feel your own skin flush.

You decide you need another glass of wine and some air, so you take your cabernet and your cigarettes and head for the back of the house. Within a few minutes you hear the French door open and close again.

"I've told you a million times those things are going to kill you."

Peter. Bloody doctor.

Taking a long drag from your ciggie, you exhale slowly then say in a cavalier tone, "Yeah, well, I don't want to end up in an old age home or on my kitchen floor with a broken hip at age eighty-six and no one to find me, anyway."

"That's isn't funny," he says.

You know it's not, but you want to be spiky and sharp until you figure out what's going on with him. You decide to play it cool and aloof, and you lean on a stone post, flicking ash into the snow, saying nothing.

"I wanted to talk to you."

You turn your eyes back to him. "I'm not stopping you."

"I…" He clears his throat. "I know it's been a very long time, Tom, since…"

"Yes, it has," you snap.

"I am not proud of what I did to you. I was surprised you ever even gave me the time of day afterwards."

You just stare at him. "Yes, well, what was I supposed to do? I've known Bridget a lot longer than I've known you, and I wasn't about to stay away because of you. And hell, you're Mark's brother."

He shoves his hands into his pockets. "Yeah." After a moment, he continues talking. "Here's the thing. This is going to seem very opportunistic of me on the heels of what happened with Paul, but I promise you I've been thinking about this for a while."

You take another drag, play it cool, but your traitorous heart is pounding.

"On the off-chance I won't be nuclear-bomb blown to bits, I wanted to ask if there was ever any situation in which you might consider I'm sincere in saying… that I'm ready."

Your initial reaction is to flippantly respond, "Ready for what?", which you know would hurt tremendously, but you know he knows you know what he means. It would only make you look petty. "You're right," you say instead. "It does rather seem like you're pecking at the corpse of a two-month-dead relationship."

"If it helps," he says, "I've been thinking about this since before that happened, but I'm not a home-wrecker."

"Just a heart-breaker," you say quickly. You regret it immediately, because it reveals that it still hurts you.

You and he just stand there, gazes locked, until this time he looks away first. "Not quite nuclear-bomb," he says, "but I get the picture. I'll see you later, Tom."

He turns. You look away until the door closes and you're sure he's inside.

After you finish your cigarette, you drop the butt into the snow then step on it, then go back into the warmth of the house yourself.

 _Damn and fuck_ , you think. Not only did you never say no, but your stupid bloody heart is trying to come up with all sorts of rationalisations as to why you should think about taking him up on it. Your head knows it's a bad idea; 'fool me once, shame on me' and all that. It's not like he's been pining away for you all this time; hell, he's even had a girlfriend or two, and though you knew that he swung both ways when you got involved with him, though you don't really have a problem with bisexuality, it somehow seems to add insult to injury to know he had a girlfriend, as if he were saying 'I don't want you, and in fact I'm going to prove it by fucking someone completely the opposite of you.'

You realise you need someone to mediate between your head and your heart, but you can't think of anyone who isn't too invested in the situation themselves; if you try to present it as a theoretical, you know everyone's going to assume you're talking about Paul.

As per the usual when you can't think what else to do when presented with an impossible dilemma, you get yourself so completely pissed that you have to take one of the proffered beds. You wake up the next morning with a splitting headache and otherwise feeling like utter arse. You've made yourself at home enough times that you drag your sorry self to the shower.

You pass Peter in the hallway. You don't meet his gaze, but you wonder how he came to stay, too.

When you come out only feeling marginally better but looking dramatically improved, you go down to the kitchen. Bridget's eating breakfast, and when you stumble in she's on her feet in an instant to pour you a coffee.

"Thank you," you grovel pathetically, nursing it as if the mug held the elixir of life. In a way it sort of does.

"Poor Tom," she says, patting your shoulder before resuming her seat.

"Where's everyone?"

"Mark and Andy went out. Gave Peter a lift back to his place."

"Any other stragglers?"

"Just you, I'm afraid," she says lightly with a laugh.

You're staring into the cup after taking a long sip, sighing as you feel (you swear you do) the caffeine spreading through your system and knocking you into shape.

"Tom," says Bridget. It's a dangerous tone, the same tone she uses when Andy's in trouble. You hesitate to look up, but you do it. Her concern is evident. "What is the matter with you?" It's more gentle statement than demand.

You sigh again. You're not sure if you should say anything, but you realise you can't go on _not_ saying anything. "Bridget," you say tentatively. "Do you remember, from a million years ago, my German fling Dieter?"

She screws up her face. "Yeah, I do," she says at last. "The one that dumped you and broke your heart, the bastard."

You look down and see your hands are trembling, so you clutch the mug even harder. "That wasn't his real name."

"I don't understand," she says. "What was the point of—" She stops speaking so suddenly it sounds like she's had the wind knocked out of her. "Who was it, really?"

You can't meet her eyes.

"Tom, talk to me."

In your grip the mug breaks into pieces, sending the dregs of your coffee as well as a thin stream of blood from the cut in your hand in a puddle around the base.

"Oh my God," she says. You hold your hand up, press a serviette to it. It's not deep, but cuts in the hand always bleed like crazy. Bridget takes both from you as mum mode kicks in again. She pulls you to the sink, washes it out with hot water and soap (the sting sobering you instantly). She then holds your hand up over your head, pressing on it until the bleeding stops. She admonishes you to sit down and keep your hand up as she gets the first aid kit.

"I don't think we need Accident and Emergency," she says, slathering on antibacterial cream before putting a large plaster on your palm, "but if you were trying to get out of finishing our conversation, it's not going to work."

"Promise me you won't flip the fuck out," you say as she mops up the sullied coffee and shards of porcelain. You're amazed that the cut is only now starting to hurt, and it's doing so with a vengeance, throbbing with each beat of your heart.

She stops, then glares at you.

You say the name in a croak: "Peter."

"Peter?" she repeats, a little too loudly for your liking. "What, the doctor from the Health Centre? I always suspected he might be gay…."

You shake your head.

"My ex, Waspy? Now that _does_ surprise me—"

"No."

She blinks, then covers her mouth with her hand; you see this from the corner of your eye. "Not Mark's…"

She trails off. You don't deny it, which is as good as a confirmation. Again you can't bear to look at her, but you hear her fall into her chair with a hard thud.

"Christ, Tom. I had no idea."

"That was the idea."

"And all of those holiday and family things with him… I'm so sorry."

You shake your head. "It was a long time ago."

"Not so long ago that you stopped from drinking yourself into a stupor over it last night." You feel her hand over yours. "What happened?"

Slowly, quietly, you describe what Peter had sprung upon you at the party.

"Can't deal with non-finite endings," she grumbles indignantly. "I could murder him, hurting you like that. And now he's suddenly ready?"

"You can't say a word to anyone," you say. "Not him, not Mark, not Shaz or Jude for that matter. Not a word."

"Tom, asking me to keep something from my husband is a big, big deal," she says. "I don't know if I can do that."

It's not fair of you to put her on the spot like that. You sigh. "If you tell him, please ask him not to get involved." You look at her at last. "Part of me wants to punch Peter. Part of me wants to give it a go. I don't know what to do."

For once, Bridget seems at a loss for words. Finally, probably because Mark and Andy may be back any time, she speaks at last. "I'm not really sure what to say. It's been almost twenty years. He's changed. You've changed. But I can't tell you with absolutely certainty that what _could be_ is enough to overcome what _was_. I know how much he hurt you." She squeezes your hand again. "But… I also know Peter is not the type of man who hurts people on purpose." She stands, bends and hugs you. "Whatever you decide to do, Tom, know I love you."

It makes you want to fucking cry, the love and concern this woman has for you, more than you probably deserve, but you've done enough crying for the new year already. "Thanks, Bridgeline," you say. "Who knew we'd still be going through such drama into our fifties?"

"Speak for yourself, darling," she says back in a playful manner.

You chuckle, feeling slightly better for her comfort and for having finally given up the secret, but you're no closer to a decision.

………

For the first time in a while you look at yourself in the mirror with a critical eye. The glint of occasional grey hair catches your notice, the slight sagging of your jaw, the mark on your nose from your reading glasses, but you're still very trim for a man your age because you're vain and you work hard to stay that way. You haven't thought about Peter in that way, as a lover, in many years but it's inevitable you do now. _He was good_ , you muse, thinking back to that moment behind the nightclub. It stirs something deep within you, remnants of embers of feelings that had once warmed you… and had gone on to burn you.

At the time you'd thought what he'd done would always be unforgiveable to you, but you wonder if you could truly forgive him now. It was the closest thing you'd ever had to love, and he did seem truly, sincerely sorry. Considering rekindling anything now seems pathetic and desperate, though, particularly on the heels of Paul's leaving you, which, you realise now, didn't hurt you nearly as much at Peter's leaving you did, and you were with Paul for a lot longer. 

But what had taken Peter so fucking long to be 'ready'? Did he think you'd be at his beck and call, expecting you to ask 'How high?' just because he said 'Jump'?

 _Fuck_ , you think. You're not superstitious, but you realise you need a sign to help you decide.

………

"Tom?"

"Andy?" you say in return as you and your godson split a plate of chips. When he's got the time, you like to take him out to lunch on the weekend and spoil him a bit. He'd be heading off to uni in the autumn, which really makes you feel your age.

"I wanted to thank you for your advice. I asked her out. We have a date tonight."

You smile at him; he's talking about the girl he liked. All at once it strikes you how much he's grown to look like his father, which leads to thoughts of his Uncle Peter. "Yes, well, it was a toss-up, as I know next to nothing about girls," you joke. "I'm glad it worked out, though."

He takes another chip. "I'm a little surprised my dad is gonna let me go."

"Well, you're as big as he is now," you say, "and younger, and probably faster. You could just tackle him and head out."

Andy smiles. "You're joking," he says thoughtfully, "but I can tell you're upset about something. Is it your hand? Does it hurt? Or is it something you want to talk about? Is it Paul?" This is where the bit of him that's most like his mother is surfacing despite his regarding you with his father's eyes.

"Not Paul, no," you say, looking at him. "Maybe you could give me an opinion as payback for all of my surprisingly sage advice."

"Let's have it."

"Let's say," you begin, "you had something really nice with someone who you know liked you a lot too, but they chuck you because they aren't ready for something more, and don't know when they'll be ready. How long would you consider too long to wait?"

"For what?"

"Well, if they came to you later and said they'd gotten over their problem and were ready to be with you. When would it just be too late? At which point would you say 'bugger off, you blew your chance': after two years? Ten? Twenty? Or would you give them a chance whenever you got it because you always wanted to know how things would have been if things had lasted?"

Andy looks really thoughtful. "That's hard to say," he says. "I mean, if I loved someone the way, say, my dad loves my mum, I would think it would never be too late. Life's kind of too short."

You smile. "Andy, you're sixteen."

"So?" he says. "My dad still talks about how he's never regretted coming back for Mum, and that was even before they were going out." You remember that night vividly, when Mark had appeared out of nowhere to Bridget amidst the falling snow, and their love affair, a little shaky at first, had taken its first steps. "He says he had never been quite so impulsive in his life, except maybe when he proposed to Mum. But that was still about Mum. I think he just _knew_."

You ponder Andy's words a great deal over the next few days, regarding life being too short, and take his innocent wisdom as your sign. Things _were_ different now. This would be not a fling that got too serious too quickly. This was a proposal of sorts, too, an invitation to make a real go of things. It was not desperate and pathetic. It was course correction.

………

"Anything yet?"

It's Bridget on the phone. She doesn't have to say anything more.

"I think… I'm going to move forward."

You can hear the smile in her voice when she speaks. "That's great." You hear her clear her throat, and when she talks again it's really quiet. Maybe Mark's in the room. "What's the next step?"

"I'm not sure," you say. "I sort of shot him down when he brought it up."

She's silent for a moment. "Mark asked him to join him for a drink at the bar at Claridge's tonight. You should go."

"But Mark will be there."

"Not now he won't."

You don't know what Bridget has in mind to detain Mark from meeting his brother without allowing him to warn Peter in advance, but you have great faith in her abilities, great confidence in their continued active sex life. You take extra time to groom yourself before shooting out to the minicab you've ordered. You're dressed neatly and your hair is immaculate. It's a far cry from the alley behind the meat market where you first kissed him. 

You see him with a scotch at the bar, tapping away at his mobile. His eyes lazily flick up then down at the movement in the periphery of his vision, then up again when the recognition sets in. He looks understandably surprised.

"Tom," he blurts. "This is unexpected."

"I know." You're more nervous than you thought you'd be. "Mind if I join you?"

"No, no, please do. I'm just waiting for Mark."

You perch upon the stool. You know Mark's not coming, but you don't want to give anything away. "Thanks."

"Can I, er, buy you a drink?"

"I'd like that. Thanks."

You opt for a dirty martini, which the bartender brings by in a terrifyingly short amount of time. You try not to drink it too quickly.

"I've been thinking," you say, running your finger up and down the stem of your glass, then shift your eyes to him. "About what you said on New Year's."

Peter's features are inscrutable. "Have you?"

"Yes."

"And…?"

Fuck. You haven't really thought through what you'd say next. "I'm sorry," you blurt.

He looks confused. "I hardly think you need to apologise to me."

"I mean for acting like we just split up last week," you go on to say. "It's been a lot of years. We're friends. We're practically family."

"We've avoided the subject," he says. "It's understandable. And frankly, I was expecting, well, a nuclear-level blast, as I said, so thanks for not singeing my eyebrows off."

You smile, even chuckle a little, then sip your drink again. You're feeling a little braver. "Do you remember what you said to me that first night?" you ask. "About being too old to be snogging in alleys?"

He grins. "Definitely too old now."

"I suppose now we'd just have to do something less risqué, like sit in the back of the theatre," you say.

He is looking at you like he doesn't quite know how to interpret what you're saying. "Yeah," he says at last. "I suppose we would."

Tentatively you release the stem of the martini glass and run the pads of your fingers over the back of his hand. The tumbler hits the bar roughly as his fingers release it. He looks at you.

"Or, you know, we could resort to 'your place or mine'."

"Tom," he says roughly. "You do know what I was asking."

"Oh yes," you reply. "That's the only reason I came tonight. If you're really ready for something…."

"More than just shagging," he completes, trying to be light, but that's not what you were going to say.

"No," you correct. "With no end in sight."

He focuses his blue eyes on you. "I am ready. I promise." He moves his hand so you can curl your fingers around his. "Stupid. I was pretty stupid all those years ago. To be so neurotic, to put both of us through so much like that…."

"Yeah," you say, feeling unexpectedly emotional. "You were. And if you do it again, I swear I'll get Mark to kick your arse."

He laughs. "He won't have to," he said. "It's taken—" He stops, looks down. "He won't have to," he says once more.

"Taken what?"

He doesn't say, and you can't begin to speculate what he's talking about. You ask again.

"Therapy, years of it," he says quietly. "'Physician, heal thyself,' as they say. I didn't tell anyone. I tried sticking it out with others, but I always came back to wanting you." You are not going to cry, you tell yourself. He meets your gaze. "I don't deserve this chance."

"Probably not," you say with an attempt at lightness. With greater gravity, you add, "But I can't not take it."

He turns his hand, raises it up to his lips to kiss the back of yours. The touch sends a zing up your arm, and at once you remember, quite vividly, what it was like to be his lover. Your eyes flit up to meet his.

"Are you…" He pauses. "Finished with your drink?"

You chuckle. You have no need for the rest of it. "Yes."

You make your way out of the bar. He's got his car, and when you look at one another, you think about the line 'your place or mine', and you both start to laugh simultaneously. In the car, you watch him as he drives. You haven't been able to fully appreciate his features in too long. You've denied yourself the pleasure of his beauty all of this time, because it was too heartbreaking to contemplate; when you'd look at him, you'd make yourself look through him and not see him at all.

You don't have to anymore.

"So," he says. He lives in a house now, not posh, but more posh than your flat, and based on the direction the car's taking, that's where you're going. You've been there before, but never to his room. You couldn't bear the thought before.

"So what?"

"You're staring at me."

"Am not," you say, still looking at him.

"You are." He glances to you and smiles.

When you get to his house, there's no rending of clothes or animalistic pouncing. Rather, he cups your face in his hand, brushes his thumb over your cheek, his gaze so intense you're not sure if it would be more painful to look away or let it continue. Without another word he moves and presses his mouth to yours. In the blink of an eye all of that time slips away, and you clutch him to you, kissing him with a ferocity that surprises you, holding him close as if the whole thing might disappear like a dream.

"Yes," he chuckles by your ear.

Did you ask if it was real? You don't remember. "What?"

"Well…" he demurs. "I have missed the way you beg for it."

You laugh then take his hand.

Once in his room, you divest each other of your clothes, and when your fingers come down and over him, when you hear that moan, feel him hard in your grasp, you ache in the realisation of just how much you've missed him. You're thankful for the continued friendship if for no other reason you know you're both in good health and have been careful with your lovers. Long and languorous are your kisses as you lean him against the bed. You take him first, and as you come you feel him brushing tears you don't remember shedding, making yourself all that more determined to return the favour.

………

You half-expect there'll be a note on the bedside table telling you to make yourself at home, but he's there when you wake, still asleep. He's just as physically gorgeous as you remember, and has aged very well indeed. You move to place a kiss on his shoulder. He stirs, turns over to look at you.

Will it really be this easy?

"Morning," he says, bringing his arm over and around you to pull you to him.

"It is," you say. "And it's even good."

He chuckles, and you feel his fingers in your hair. "Very good."

You feel twenty years younger. You are overcome with your desire for him again, and you rear back to kiss him. His hand slips down over your hip, cups your arse.

"Can't stay in bed all day," breathes Peter. "Taking my nephew out."

You think of Andy's advice to you. So far you haven't regretted taking it for a moment, and you suspect you never will. "Let me come."

"Mmm, I don't know," he says, a hint of teasing in his voice. "It's a bit soon to be introducing you to my family."

You sputter a laugh.

"Andy's going to be insufferable, you know," he continues.

"Why's that?" you ask; you think he will too, but don't understand why Peter would say so.

"Because he's been telling me for years to take out Auntie Tom. I just kept having to tell him I didn't want to ruin the friendship."

You start to laugh again, then tell him the advice that Andy himself gave you.

"One thing's for sure," Peter says. "That boy's been raised right."

You kiss Peter again, then again, and you know things aren't one-hundred-percent perfect, but they're as perfect as you need them to be right now.

………

Not only has Andy been raised right, but he's as smart and perceptive as his mother and his father combined. When you show up with Uncle Peter, Andy gives you a querulous look, then gives another to his uncle, then to you again, and smiles.

"What?" you ask when you get to the restaurant and Peter's gone off to find the loo. The boy hasn't stopped giving you a smug expression.

"I never knew you were more than friends all this time," he says.

"We did our best not to let our past interfere with our love for your parents and then for you."

He grins. "I'm happy. I always told Uncle Peter, you know, that he should—"

"He mentioned that to me. And that you'd be insufferable."

He laughs, sipping his Coke. "Yeah. Maybe a little."

Now that the cat's out of the bag, as it were, Sharon and Jude express a bit of surprise, but not as much as you would have thought. 

When Bridget sees you together she crushes you into a great big hug, squealing in delight. Andy was not nearly as insufferable as she's been. "That very first time I met you, Peter," she says, "I wanted to introduce you to Tom."

He laughs, hugging her tight around the waist. "That's right. I'd almost forgotten about that. And that Mark shot it down immediately."

You know how Mark used to think of you, irresponsible and a bit wild, but over the years you've proven yourself in your care of his son. He doesn't disapprove now.

"If I can end up with someone so different than myself and be utterly happy," Mark tells you, "then I have no reason to think it's not possible for anyone else."

The brothers are more alike than not; you have a feeling that Mark's always been a little bit more repressed than his brother, even with Bridget's influence. But yes, Peter and you are different; you think of Peter's insanely clean house as you passed through it to the bedroom. You smile.

"Now there's really no getting rid of me," you joke.

Mark laughs, pats you on the shoulder. "Welcome to the family." It's a promising thing for him to say after only a few days back together. You wonder what Peter's said to him.

Uncle Nick, the venerable old fart, only gives you a stony look, shakes his head, sighs, then returns to his crossword. Amused, you expected nothing less.

………

It is some weeks later when you wake in the morning with a vaguely unsettled feeling in your stomach, and you aren't sure why. You have Peter back in your life and he's truly not going anywhere; in fact, he's beside you right now, sleeping. You sit up, swing your legs over to stand and stretch.

"Always a lovely thing to see first thing in the morning," you hear from behind you.

You smile and cast a coy look back over your shoulder. 

"Tom," he says, suddenly more serious. "Come here."

You feel suddenly apprehensive, but you do as he asks, climbing back beneath the sheets.

"We did it," he says quietly.

"What?"

"We officially lasted longer this time."

In your relief, you chuckle; it's as if your gut knew but didn't want to tell your head. But yes. He's right.

"And you don't have an urge to bolt?" you ask; your tone is light but deep down you do want to know.

He shakes his head. "Not even a little. In fact… rather the opposite."

You reach to kiss him. You feel his fingers running over your hair.

"Marry me," he whispers.

You don't think twice before you answer; you don't have to. "Yes," you reply. "Of course. You're the best mistake I ever made."

He chuckles, kisses you again, then runs his hand over your hip and abdomen and proceeds to make love to you. You cannot think of a more perfect way to start a morning, or, for that matter, the rest of your life.

_The end._


End file.
